


Your Guess is as Good as Mine

by H0n3yK1tt3n



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: Angst, One Shot, PrEtEnD iM pOsTiNg ThIs On HaLlOwEeN, Written in my English class for Halloween, no beta we die like men, ok maybe not that bad but still, one shot that I got wAY too into
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-01
Updated: 2018-11-01
Packaged: 2019-08-14 13:35:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16493555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/H0n3yK1tt3n/pseuds/H0n3yK1tt3n
Summary: An English class prompt for a scary story that had to include the following:Driving in the middle of nowhereA keychainUncle LarryThe line, “Your guess is as good as mine.”Thus, I created this.





	Your Guess is as Good as Mine

**Author's Note:**

> We were told to write scary stories in English. The criteria are listed in the summary.

Why did he do it? Where did this uncharacteristic hostility come from? It wasn’t him. It couldn’t have been. Jeremy never would have said that without joking. He never would have said that and truly meant it. So why was there such scorn in his voice? Such hatred in his eyes?

His eyes. Those wonderful baby blues that had the power to turn any day around. Always so bright, so cheerful, so familiar, like the sky after a stormy night. Always lighting up at the sight of something he liked.

His eyes. Too blue. Too bright, too neon, not at all what I’ve grown to hate loving. More like lightning, flashing harsh and at such a high luminosity that you could go blind by being in their mere presence.

And how he’d said it. Oh how it burned more than any fire could. How it hurt and constricted more than any amount of smoke inhalation. How it was so difficult to breathe, being choked by a single phrase, a single word.

“Loser.”

And with those electric blue eyes and that scorching voice, how could I believe it was really him? How could I believe that those bright eyes, always so full of joy, were the same eyes that were piercing into my soul, twisting a white-hot knife into my chest? How could I believe that was the same person?

How could I convince myself that it wasn’t?

For months, he had merely been somebody that I used to know. For months, he was someone else entirely. Who was I to know for sure if tonight, on Halloween night, that that was the same person that I’d grown up with for the past twelve years? Who was I to say that it was or wasn’t? Who was I to think that I had actually _known_ this person since Pre-K?

Who was I to know _anything_?

And now, driving in the middle of nowhere to get back home, that voice and those eyes are the only things I can think of, swimming through my brain and drowning me in turn. Those robotic blue eyes and that seething voice the only thing I can focus on no matter how hard I try to steer clear of those thoughts. Steer. Can’t forget about the road. The empty road. Almost as empty as the place where Jeremy used to reside.

Those things, that horrible excuse for a best friend, a Player Two, all that occupy my mind. And the godforsaken keychain he’d given me a million years ago, clattering against my keys and ringing louder than any fire alarm or shrieking banshee.

Cling. 

Cling. 

Cling.

His Uncle Larry had to lend him money to buy it. Pathetic, right? He couldn’t afford a stupid four-dollar keychain.

Cling.

Cling.

Cling.

To be fair, four dollars does seem like a bit much.

Cling.

Cling.

Cling.

That’s nothing compared to the four hundred he spent on his chill pill though.

Cling.

Cling.

Cling.

And the dollar-seventy-five to activate it.

Cling.

Cling.

Cling.

But that keychain means so much more than anything else could.

Cling.

Cling.

Cling.

A nerdy Pac-Man ghost keychain means more to me than having more than only a single friend. More than popularity or that stupid social hierarchy of high school.

Cling.

Cling.

Cling.

More than my knuckles turning white from gripping the steering wheel so hard.

Cling.

Cling.

Cling.

It should mean more than the _loser_ that he called me.

Cling.

Cling.

Cling.

It should mean more than a simple word of five letters.

 _Loser_.

Cling.

Cling.

Loser.

 _Loser_.

Cling.

Loser.

Loser.

 _Loser_.

Loser.

Loser.

Loser.

 

Cling.

 

Why did he do it? Why did he spend four hundred dollars on a wintergreen tic tac? Why did he let it take him over and possess him like in something out of a piece of science-fiction? Why did he trust a parasitic computer in his brain more than he trusted me? Why did he abandon me? Why did he call me a loser? Why did he prove to me that I’m nothing more than these broken parts? Why did he tear me down until there was nothing left? Overall, why?

Your guess is as good as mine.

**Author's Note:**

> As you could probably tell I didn’t spend that much time on this, less than two days. But enjoy the spoops regardless?


End file.
